


break your neck and i will love you like a bird that cannot fly (you will be mine)

by snakesinspace



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Agent Curt Mega is an idiot, Blood and Injury, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pre Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Singing, Songfic, and also they're soft, needle mention, then hurt no comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24996859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakesinspace/pseuds/snakesinspace
Summary: Curt is bad at self care, Owen looks after him, it's soft :)part two does not have to be read!!!! it's a sad add on that doesn't have a happy ending. if you want just fluff, read only chapter one :))title is from jim bogart by the front bottoms.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	1. you are my angel, you are my crime (i'll serve this sentence the rest of my life)

After the deafening chaos of the facility that Curt had just infiltrated and beat a hasty retreat out of, the quiet humming of cars as he walked down the street was almost like silence. Or maybe he just couldn't hear it properly over the ringing in his ears and the burning pain in his side. He knew how suspicious he must look, a limping man littered with unexplainable scars, trying and failing to hide the fact that he was carrying a gun and bleeding profusely walking down a high street at 3am. The perpetual neon shine of the shop signs bathed his face in a pink and red glow which made his eyes hurt. Only a few more minutes till the hotel. 

His traitorous legs shook and threatened to buckle, but he kept walking, slowly. Good spies never give up. Then again, good spies also don't end up having to bleed in front of civilians at 3am on a high street, having missed their agency arranged lift because they were stabbed in the side and passed out for an hour in a bush. So Curt really didn't qualify for that category anyway. It still didn't mean he could give up, no matter how much he wanted to curl up and die right there on the dirty pavement. Cynthia would kill him for it. He kept walking, and the light made his eyes hurt like hell, but it was okay because he’d got the pictures he’d been sent to take. He had fulfilled the mission objective and that was the only thing that mattered and he kept walking.

The hotel loomed up ahead, a hulking block of grey bricks and white light. Curt slipped around the back of the building and raised his shaky hand to knock the pattern into the panel that faced him. A door slid open and a man in a black suit stepped out, accepting the small camera Curt handed him and stepping out of the way for Curt to move past him into the dark hallway. The space was lit intermittently by dim orange light bulbs that seemed to sway, or maybe that was just Curt’s blurring vision. He finally reached his own room and struggled with the key for a while until finally the door swung open, revealing the welcome sight of his partner, Owen Carvour, lying on a bed with his arm over his face. He’d been flown in for phase two of the mission, starting tomorrow. 

Curt closed the door gently so it only made a tiny clicking noise as he locked it, and snuck in as quietly as he could. He had almost made it all the way to the bathroom when his legs finally gave out and he plummeted to his knees with a painful thump.

“Curt?” Owen asked, voice thick with sleep and loud in the silent room, and Curt swore under his breath before replying.

“Yeah, go back to sleep, I’m just coming in,”

“Alright.” Curt prayed that Owen hadn’t heard the hitch in his voice as he got up and aggravated his injuries. Judging by the sounds of shifting covers and a creaking mattress alone, as he’d finally moved into the bathroom and pushed the door mostly shut (he didn’t want to be completely alone, away from Owen. Not tonight.), he reckoned he’d gotten away with it. Peeling off layers of blood-sticky fabric was firmly on Curt’s list of extremely bad feelings, and this occasion was no exception, stripping his shirt off made his skin crawl, as did the sight of blood smeared across his stomach. Further investigation revealed a nasty looking gash running down the left of his torso, left there as a parting gift from one of the men at the facility who was particularly handy with a knife. Curt contemplated just leaving it and going to bed to deal with it in the morning, but he doubted Owen would be too pleased with all the blood on the sheets, so he wet some tissues he found and wiped at the wound, hissing quietly when the pain flared and trying not to look at it too much. 

Curt was so focused on trying to clean the laceration that he barely registered the door opening, but the shocked little intake of breath that Owen made drew his attention immediately. Looking up from where he was sat, sprawled on the floor, he looked and felt a lot like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, or a domesticated beast that had just ripped a room apart and was now caught in the middle of the wreckage of its nature, silently begging for its master’s forgiveness. Owen stood in the doorway, ruffled with old pyjamas hanging from his frame, hair messy and loose.

“Christ, Curt! Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked, concern spilled into his tone like oil as he crouched down and took the wad of damp tissues from Curt’s shaking hand. 

“Didn’t want to worry you,” Curt replied quietly, then after a tense beat of silence in which Owen’s tired eyes on him felt like a searing knife, cauterizing his wounds,

"I can handle it, go back to bed,”

“Fucking hell, why would I do that?" Care was hard to express gently for a man like Owen Carvour. "You’re bleeding! I bet all you were going to do was clean it with water.” Owen exclaimed, although he lowered his voice considerably when he saw the line of Curt’s mouth go from just-about-coping to about-to-cry-but-trying-not-to. “Love, I don’t want to go back to bed when you’re hurt,” He said as if it was a final statement in a mission briefing as he searched around for a first aid kit.

Upon finding one, he pulled out a bottle of antiseptic, and smiled sympathetically when Curt whined. 

“It’s not that bad!”

“Oh it is that bad, darling, now hold still.” 

The liquid filled the air with a scent that reminded Curt of the med bay in headquarters, and almost took his mind off of the stinging pain of the chemicals coming into contact with his injury.

After a few tense minutes of Owen playing doctor and properly dressing the stab wound, Curt was almost asleep, the exhaustion of the day hitting him like a flash flood. He was desperately trying not to rest his head on Owen’s shoulder, though he was so conveniently close and the thought was so very tempting. Noticing his lover’s predicament, Owen laughed softly and shuffled Curt into his arms, ignoring the halfhearted protests. He stood up, carrying Curt to one of the beds in the room, and laid Curt down gently onto it, as if he were about to shatter. 

Seeing Owen’s retreating form as he headed over to the other bed was the straw that broke the camel’s back, or rather the final hit to the dam that broke and gave way to the tidal wave of bottled up emotions in Curt’s mind. The tears rose up unbidden, small and weak and tired. 

“Please don’t go,” he managed to whisper, and Owen whipped around, immediately at his side and cupping a hand to his face. 

“Oh honey, don’t cry,” he tried to wipe away Curt’s tears, his tone anxious and apologetic. “I was just going to grab you something to change into, is that alright? I’m sorry, love, I didn’t think,”

Curt smiled shakily, sniffed, curled his hands into the fabric of Owen's shirt.

“‘S’alright, sorry as well.”

“Don’t be, you’ve nothing to apologise for, my dear.”

Eventually, Curt managed to awkwardly change out of his suit trousers and into an old pair of pyjama bottoms (that he was ninety nine percent sure were Owen’s) without disturbing his injured side, and Owen had joined him in the bed. Curt was sprawled out on Owen's chest, head tucked firmly into his neck. The steady beat of Owen's heart as well as the rise and fall of his chest as they breathed in time with each other felt like the rhythm of an old song that Curt had always heard but could never fully remember.

Owen played with the hair on the back of Curt's head, drawing lines through the short strands as Curt laid in his arms, pliant and exhausted. But try as he might, Curt could not drift off to sleep. He groaned, annoyed, after twenty minutes of trying to fall asleep he was still awake, the pain in his side a persistent ache like a mosquito's buzz. 

"...Owen?" He asked quietly, tone soft and bare.

"Curt," Owen replied, and Curt could hear the smile in his voice. 

"Can I ask a favour?" His speech was muffled as he directed his question into Owen's delicate collarbone.

"Of course, love," Owen chuckled as he stared down at Curt. All he could see of his face was the curve of his cheek, so he gently tapped the back of his head. Curt looked up grumpily, having removed his face from its very comfortable position. 

"Nooooo" he whined, "'m  _ comfy! _ " 

"Yes, and you can go back as soon as you've asked your favour. I can barely hear you when your voice is all muffled." Owen replied, smiling softly and leaning down to kiss him quickly. Curt blushed and looked away, mumbling something just too quietly for Owen to hear.

"What was that, dear?"

"Can you sing for me please?" Curt's voice was small and vulnerable, and it made Owen's heart melt.

"I'd love to, angel. What song?" He asked, brushing his fingers through Curt's soft hair and watching him get a little sleepier. Curt scrunched up his face as he thought, before setting his head back on Owen's chest and shrugging. 

"Don't mind, as long as it's you singing it." He murmured, fidgeting with the collar of Owen's night shirt, flipping the corner up and smoothing it down again. Owen ran through a list of the songs he knew, finally settling on two. 

"Which one, 'That Ole Devil Called Love' or 'Smoke Gets In Your Eyes'? You choose, love." He ran his hand over the tiny scar on Curt's left shoulder, a souvenir from one of their earliest missions together. Curt hummed softly, recalling the two. 

"Smoke gets in your eyes is sad, and your voice fits Billie Holiday. Devil called love, please." He requested shyly, listening to Owen's steady heartbeat under his ear, who chuckled softly and nodded. 

"Alright, darling. Try and sleep though." 

Owen took a moment to remember the words, and began to sing quietly. "It's that ole devil called love again,

Gets behind me and keeps giving me the shove again,

Putting rain in my eyes, tears in my dreams,

And rocks in my heart." He finished the first verse, smiling as he watched Curt's eyes struggle to stay open, and took his hand gently, running his thumb over the bruised knuckles. "It's that sly ole son of a gun again,

He keeps telling me, I'm the lucky one again.

But I still have that rain, still have those tears,

And those rocks in my heart."

Curt began to sleepily hum along, dropping a few of the higher notes but staying mostly in tune and Owen fell a little bit more in love as he continued, rubbing soft patterns into his lover's upper back and shoulders.

"Suppose I didn't stay and ran away

Wouldn't play

That devil-what a potion he would brew

He'd follow me around

Build me up, tear me down

Till I'd be so bewildered

I wouldn't know what to do"

Looking down at Curt, soft and vulnerable in a way that made some part of Owen cringe in fear, he agreed with the lyrics he was singing. Curt was so strikingly, dangerously honest with his love, and it felt like building a tower destined to fall. His unabashed displays of affection wrongfooted Owen, who had been taught to be cold and withdrawn from the moment he was old enough to learn, a trait that was only encouraged at MI6. 

"Might as well give up the fight again

I know darn well he'll convince me

That he's right again

When he sings that siren song

I just gotta tag along

With that ole devil called love" 

Owen felt more than saw Curt fall asleep, the small shift in breath, the way the lingering tension left his body finally as his quiet humming trailed off, and tried not to think about the morning and all it brought. Curt had taught Owen how to love like you'd teach someone to dance, slowly at first, and then all at once, spinning and weaving into a web of their own design, a little pocket universe to step into. 

Everything was alright, for a moment, and time held its breath.

He'd follow around

Build me up, tear me down

Till I'd be so bewildered

I wouldn't know what to do.


	2. today my love has flown away, and smoke gets in my eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is where the hurt no comfort tag kicks in!!! sorry owen.
> 
> song is smoke gets in your eyes by the platters

It had all happened so quickly, a step, the sudden loss of footing, of contact, a hand grasping at the back of his jacket and just missing, and then the gut wrenching sensation in the pit of his stomach as he plummeted, the smell of smoke in the air. It felt like flying for a second, and the image of Icarus falling into the depths flicked across his mind for a moment. Owen could have laughed, if it weren't for the fact that he was choking on a scream and the certainty that he was going to die, alone. 

A sickening crunch, a strange feeling of floating as the kinetic energy ricocheted through his body, and then sharp, blinding pain. And the worst was yet to come, as he lay gasping, (a fish out of water or maybe a human plunged into it, wings melted and mangled like twisted iron) bones shattered, and watched his partner run away, blood trickling from somewhere. No, he could still feel the ground beneath him shaking, a volcanic eruption of his own creation. He'd be a God smote by his -and his love's- own palm.

_ Palm to palm in holy Palmer's kiss. Have not saints lips?  _

_ Let lips do what hands do, they pray grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. _

Shakespeare's words forced themselves into his aching head as he waited for the blast. It felt like how he loved, tempting fate, waiting to feel the inevitable heat of burning for daring to grasp happiness. He couldn't help but laugh at the irony, that a sonnet about love would be the one on his lips as his lover ran from him, dooming him to a forgotten grave. Would anyone come back for his body?

He felt his own faith turn steadily to despair.

The explosion roared into the room, scorching his skin and showing him death's face, so close he could kiss it. Everything was red and black and soot, hell on Earth, or rather hell in a small Russian weapons facility of no real importance. His ears rang, piercing and high, and his vision faded to black.

Owen awoke, hours later, to the view of a dark blue sky littered with stars, the first feathers of dawn peeking out from the right of his blurry field of vision. For a moment, he wondered if he'd made it into Heaven somehow, if fire and betrayal had purged his sins, but then he felt the crushing weight of rubble pinning him to the floor, and the horror of life (and with it the promise of a painful, lonely death) rushed into his bones. He sobbed, allowing himself to feel his pain, only for the sound to be rough and cracked, strangled by his scorched throat. Maybe he'd die from dehydration. 

Distraction. He needed to distract himself from the pain. What did he do to distract himself from the pain? Curt, Curt usually helped. A sharp stab to his heart reminded him that Curt wasn't there. What else? Singing, he used to sing. He could do that.

A song wormed its way into his thoughts. He began to sing, shakily, raspily. It hurt to breathe but he kept going.

"They asked me how I knew

My true love was true

Oh, I of course replied

Something here inside

Cannot be denied

They said someday you'll find

All who love are blind

Oh, when your heart's on fire

You must realize

Smoke gets in your eyes

So I chaffed them and I gaily laughed

To think they could doubt my love

Yet today my love has flown away

I am without my love

Now laughing friends deride

Tears I cannot hide

Oh, so I smile and say

When a lovely flame dies

Smoke gets in your eyes

Smoke gets in your eyes" 

Owen wasn't sure when he'd started to cry, but now he couldn't stop. He didn't stop even when a silhouette crept into his peripheral, even when voices muttered around him, when a boot thudded into his side. He only stopped when a needle slid into his veins and the sedative spread through his blood like death coming to claim him. 

It was the singing that led them to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry :) also hello saf discord!!

**Author's Note:**

> song is that ole devil called love by billie holiday :)


End file.
